Call of Duty
by Bibliotecaria.D
Summary: Whatever happened to the most famous pornstar of Cybertron?
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Call of Duty

**Warning: **Porn and pornstars. Power imbalance? Fantasies and libidos spinning out of control.

**Rating: ** NC-17

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Soundwave, Megatron, Onslaught, Jazz, Hound

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.

**Motivation (Prompt): **NK won the fic/art commission auction, and she gave us a kinkmeme prompt ( . ?thread=9152990#t9152990). Basically, whatever happened to the pornstars of Cybertron?

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**Part One: As Seen On TV **

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After millions of years of war, Cybertron was doing the best it could. There were highways, businesses, billboards, neon signs, and government offices again. Overhead, the piercing beams of light from flight directories kept even air traffic in line. Iacon was still an echoing ruin of burnt-out levels and collapsed buildings, but Polyhex had rebuilt from Darkmount outward.

The Autobots hadn't been thrilled by the location, but, well. Their opinions hadn't been asked for.

It wasn't the Golden Age, that was for sure. The world as they'd once known it was gone, but it was better than it'd been a vorn ago. The Autobots weren't kept in rudimentary shelters, penned in under guard, all under the oppressive shadow of the smelterworks. The P.O.W. camps were closed down. So were the smelter pits. The remaining prisoners were classified as war criminals for one reason or another, but they worked the smelter instead of died in it. That was an improvement of sorts.

The Autobots took what they could get, these days. Things were getting better. To be perfectly honest, they'd accept a lot of slag if it meant the war wouldn't continue.

There was hope for a reunited world. They weren't prisoners, not quite. They were registered, but tracking devices weren't stapled to their wrists or anything like that. They were just told to report in to work supervisors at regular intervals, or they'd be tracked down and fined for the tardiness. If they attempted to avoid the trackers or tried to leave Polyhex, they'd be punished. That seemed harsh, but they _had_ just lost a civil war that'd stretched out for millions of years and nearly destroyed their race.

Besides, there were travel permits in the works. That would open up other cities to them. Technically they could be applied for at any time, but nobody knew an Autobot who'd actually gotten an application passed through. The fact that they existed at all was an encouragement, however. The promise was there that someday they'd be able to leave Polyhex. Maybe. If their work permits were checked off by their supervisor, their residence sector came up clean for civil unrest the prior meta-cycle, and their application passed inspection.

So far, the first two requirements had been impossible to meet. It wasn't unreasonable for the Decepticon-borne government to expect those requirements to be met before giving the third consideration. It didn't make sense to allow uncooperative ex-enemy soldiers to walk away. That would restart the resistance in no time at all.

The Autobots could be patient. They'd outwaited the P.O.W. camps and the final surrender of Optimus Prime. They could wait through the rebuilding of Polyhex.

Not even the losers wanted the war to restart. Cybertron as a whole had had enough of fighting.

Work permits were easier to get than travel permits. That was a relief. The work permits had been a long-anticipated escape from Darkmount's not-quite-prison camps. They'd been fighting for so long that sitting around doing nothing was driving the Autobots up the walls. Everybody and their unitmates had applied for a work permit, doing construction if that's all that was offered.

For a while, it had been. One of Megatron's concessions during the negotiated surrender from Optimus Prime had been transparency in dealing with the Autobots who surrendered. Shockwave had been almost eerily up-front about shunting the Autobots into tidy, closely-monitored neighborhoods in the city. It'd been a relief knowing what was going on. The Decepticons still wanted their business and their businesses; Shockwave just didn't want Autobots and Decepticons _living_ together. Which was fine, because they didn't want to live with Decepticons, either. Okay, good. Mutual agreement on both sides.

There had been cheering in the dormitories - converted from prison barracks, formerly the P.O.W. shelters - when the maps of the planned city districts were projected. At last, they knew what the plan was! The plan was to get out of the dormitories to build proper housing, constructing residential areas that the Autobots gladly moved into.

Then the Business Bureau had opened, ready to start blocking out the business districts, and Autobots descended on it like a pack of starving Empties spotting a scrap of energon. The clerks had peered through the front door and immediately called for back-up the day it opened to accepting business permit applications. There had been a numbered queue out the building and all the way around the bureaucratic compound the whole of the first mega-cycle. Everyone had a business application in hand, because everyone had been waiting for the war to end to resume a normal life. Normal life, for a lot of mechs, involved commerce.

The Autobots had been tweaking their resumes and work applications for jobs for weeks. They'd been combing the wider city looking for Decepticons willing to hire Autobot employees, Neutrals willing to act as trading fronts, and pulling together individual and group business permits of their own. When the Business Bureau's doors opened, everybody and their business partner flooded through. It was chaos, but it was highly organized, eagerly anticipated chaos.

Soundwave had gone to be the official High Command presence when news of the crowd reached him, but he ended up setting up a makeshift desk and pitching in to help midway through the mega-cycle.

"#865!" the queue-board bawled out over the crowd, and Soundwave absently raised his hand to indicate he was the open clerk. The back of his processor kept compiling the new application data being fed into it by the other ten Decepticons feverishly working around the room. He scribbled notes on the last business application. The pair of Autobots who'd turned it in had potential, and he'd matched it with a Neutral's work permit, writing down the number even as he filed the application into the Bureau's database.

A rough reset of a vocalizer interrupted his concentration. He knew that voice. Soundwave looked up, visor in a narrow band.

"This is somewhat awkward," Prowl said under his breath.

He continued staring silently. Yes. Yes, it was. What was the Second-in-Command of the Autobots doing standing in line like a common footsoldier? As much as the Decepticons muttered and protested, as often as Starscream complained, Megatron hadn't hesitated an instant to deem Optimus Prime one of his civilian advisors. As Megatron had gruffly pointed out when informing the Prime of his new job, somebody needed to represent the Autobots or it'd be a slippery slope into slavery and outright war soon after.

The Prime had accepted the position with grace. If only certain Decepticons could have followed that example.

Starscream's indignant shriek of rage had blown out three windows and Laserbeak's audios, but that's what the Cassetticon got for eavesdropping on Megatron's office. It wasn't like all of Darkmount couldn't hear what was being yelled about. When the two highest-ranking mechs in the Decepticons went at it, _everybody_ got an audio-full.

"Advisor," Megatron had bellowed in Starscream's face during one memorable argument. "Advisor, not enemy, not backstabbing traitorous glitch who doesn't know how to budget to save his blasted wings!" The Air Commander had darted out of reach of an irate swipe at said wings, and Megatron had glared him down. "I need **someone** more trustworthy than you, someone used to dealing civilians in some other way than **shooting them**!"

"I never!" Starscream's mouth had dropped in one of the best affronted expressions Soundwave had ever witnessed. The carrier mech couldn't have said if it was because Megatron trusted the Autobot leader more than him, or because Megatron had just dismissed vorns of experience as Emirate of Vos.

Either way, Optimus Prime had kept the advisor post, and Starscream's divisions were so far under budget Soundwave had grudgingly come to respect his ability to save money.

He still shot civilians. Soundwave didn't respect that.

Prowl waited for him to say something. When he didn't, the Autobot Second set his application down on the desk and helped himself to the chair meant for applicants. Fitting, since that's what he seemed to be. Once he was sitting, he folded his hands in his lap and regarded the communication specialist with all the patience of someone who'd just waited in a never-ending queue. "We could waste our time with small talk neither of us cares for, or you could approve this and get me out of your way."

"Efficient," Soundwave said, neutral to cover his surprise, and he picked up the application. A cursory scan of the first lines almost cause him to drop it. "Unexpected choice of business."

"Accounting is a peaceful occupation, one of particular use to supporting the growth of a new business community. I am already a trusted figure among the Autobots, and I intend to make availability to first-time business owners a priority," Prowl said in the same neutral tone Soundwave had used. "If you believe Decepticons would be interested, I am willing to extend the same offer to them. All of which is already clearly stated in my permit proposal." He gave a small nod to the application, a hint to get on with processing it.

Patient, perhaps, but Prowl _had_ been standing in line for 70 hours.

Soundwave gave him a blank look. "Position left open under the Prime. Assumption made that you would be stepping forward to work as the Prime's assistant. Shockwave: has been operating under this assumption since civilian advisor position created." The civilian bureaucracy Shockwave was building from Darkmount out was based off of a military framework, since that was what Cybertron's remaining population knew how to operate within. Soundwave's understanding of the new structure was that the system relied on transplanting several officers from the remaining Autobot Command straight into the new government offices, borrowing their authority to lend the civilian offices legitimacy.

Shockwave's plan had worked so far as transplanting the Decepticon officers. Their Autobot counterparts were going to throw a spanner in the works, it seemed. Now that Soundwave was looking up from his work enough to actually look at the crowded room, he could spot five or more of Optimus Prime's top officers patiently waiting in the queue. Some of them were watching his desk specicially, suspicion and slight anxiety visible on their faces. He could approve or turn down their applications, setting precedence on whether they were _allowed_ out of their past military ranks.

Honestly, he didn't know what to do. He didn't even know what to think. It hadn't occurred to any of the Decepticon officers that the Autobot officers would want out of the political arena. The obvious transition from military rank to power and office within the civilian government sphere meant that surely the Autobots would want to be involved. Right?

"I want nothing to do with the government," Prowl said now, and a stressed flash of white crossed Soundwave's visor. The Autobot kept his voice lowered and hands relaxed on his lap, but he met Soundwave's gaze with the intensity of someone who'd given this a lot of thought. "Numbers are easier to calculate than potential casualties. Optimus Prime is aware of my resignation and understands my reasoning. That is all the official approval I need to start a life outside of war. Barring, of course," he nodded to the application, "your signature."

This was going to start another shouting match between Megatron and Optimus Prime, Soundwave could tell. Starscream had nothing on the bass rumble of the Prime at full volume, and hearing that booming voice raised still had Decepticons cringing and diving under cover in reflexive fear for life and limb. Worse, the Prime was infernally rational. He could talk Megatron down from impassioned but unwise decisions, which was all well and good until Soundwave was stuck realizing that making this call had been dumped squarely on his shoulders alone.

He reluctantly turned his attention to the application. It was impeccably filed out, as was to be expected from Prowl.

An accounting business. From master strategist to number-cruncher. He could see the benefits, but he read the application through eight times before making his final decision. He was well aware he'd be the one explaining this to Megatron later and getting stuck between Prime and commander as a result.

He signed off on the application. The corner of Prowl's mouth turned up in a smile that might have held relief if he were any less composed. He inclined his head respectfully and stood to leave.

Soundwave restrained himself from chucking a stylus at the back of the mech's head in petty revenge as the next Autobot bounced over to sit down. He was afraid to see what the application in Jazz's hands was for.

Life outside of the war was certainly interesting.

With time, the drama had died down. Half a vorn after the Business Bureau opened, the business districts were thriving, expanding zones attempting to surround the spaceport, or what would be the spaceport once construction completed. The sole entertainment district had riots at least once a deca-cycle, something even the most optimistic city official had planned for when applications opened. City-licensed entertainment venues and entertainers meant controlled circumstances, not controlled customers. The situation hadn't spun out of acceptable parameters yet. Shockwave had Darkmount's garrison on standby just in case. The city forced-labor construction gangs did a brisk turnover, mechs staying just long enough in chains for the hangover to fade and regrets to bloom.

Polyhex had expanded out and away from the base of Darkmount. The Autobots still tended to cluster into neighborhoods that catered to their own needs even after Shockwave lifted the residence border lines, but they were safe enough. A Decepticon could walk through the streets without a gun, anyway, and that was safer than Polyhex had ever been before the war. Semi-hostile optics watched from the windows, but business was business. The Decepticons had shanix to spend. The Autobots were running businesses. These things had to meet in the middle eventually.

The more time passed without the war restarting, the more people started to have some faith that peace would last. Autobots started turning in travel applications, hopeful even after denial. Autobot employees started getting promotions in Decepticon businesses. Decepticons started applying to Autobot businesses. Some of them even got hired. Decepticon businesses started forming partnerships with Autobot businesses. Decepticons in general started forming partnerships with Autobots. Neutrals started complaining that they were losing money as go-betweens became less and less necessary. That was the kind of complaint that was really a reassurance in disguise.

Soundwave himself had Blurr's Messenger Service on speed-dial for deliveries. He also had Jazz's latest album, as produced by Blaster's recording studio. The Autobot businesses were useful, he'd found. He intended to keep them under close supervision, but hopefully for business purposes instead of suspected insurgency.

The Media & Entertainment government branch was expanding rapidly under his control. New content was becoming less rare, and Soundwave set the government broadcast standards purposefully low to encourage distributions through commercial channels instead of back alleys. Before the entertainment district opened, he advertised the broadcast studios as to live audiences - with armed guards out of sight of the cameras - and brought in amusement acts that anyone could apply to try out for. Some of them, even most of them, had been stupid, painfully awkward, and even dangerous. It'd still been an insanely popular move. There hadn't been new entertainment shows since the first half of the war. There hadn't been a news program since the last reporter who dared whisper into a radio transmitter was executed for speaking out against the faction-approved propaganda line.

Soundwave hired the best acts. He let them write their own material, pass it by him, and gradually build their own shows around it. He carefully vetted Decepticon applicants to become a news desk, real personalities reporting news from around the city, Cybertron, and even the Galactic Council. Everyone hated them on sight. There were protests outside M&E offices when he replaced the shorter mech. He made the new guy into a roving reporter and reinstated the short mech, and everyone happily went back to hating the program.

There was no doubt about M&E's impact on the city: there was pile of requests and complaints for his assistants to deal with that could choke a Morphobot. If that wasn't enough proof, the first businesses to open contacted him for commercial space before he had to contact them. They knew what would get their businesses noticed, and it was Media & Entertainment.

Mechs were _mesmerized_ by commercials. They were a lost art on Cybertron, where the factions had seized control of all broadcast mediums early on in the war. If he'd have allowed infomercials like Swindle wanted, the conmech would have walked away with enough shanix to buy the spaceport. He made sure to run at least one commercial for Prowl's accountant services every broadcast cycle.

Opening the entertainment district took some pressure off the broadcast cycle, but Soundwave was responsible for it as well. It was Entertainment, after all. His Cassettes were permanently assigned to monitoring it, leaving Reflector to the studios. That worked out better than expected. Concerts could be recorded for later broadcasts that way, and the Cassettes could alert the Darkmount garrison at the first sign of trouble as well.

The way the district had been set up, Soundwave could keep track of everything from his office if he had to. Live performances required a venue to house the audience, and the venue required a business permit, packaging everything into a neat circuit that could be easily monitored. Impromptu assemblies on the street were grounds for arrest unless a government branch had put its stamp of approval on it. Concerts were encouraged; protests were cut off at the root.

Arrests were becoming infrequent, however. Soundwave monitored the legal venues closely and the smaller, hushed gatherings in the Autobot neighborhoods even more so, but it seemed everyone on Cybertron was as tired of war as Megatron had become. The Autobots mostly held meetings to discuss living conditions, plans for appeals to free the smelterwork prisoners, and inane things of no real consequences. They seemed to just want normal lives.

Like the Decepticon soldiers-turned-civilians, they wanted a job, a place to live, and something to look forward to at the end of the workday, be that a drink, a concert, or a vacation.

Peace gave Soundwave time for forward-thinking projects that he hoped would contribute to the peace. Digging up old classics in music and vidscreen broadcasts allowed him to expand his branch by hiring more people to help, making the M&E the most faction-cooperative government divisions. He kept media-control, propaganda, and spying discreetly separate from the broadcast planning and research portions of the branch, creating the polite fiction that the Decepticon M&E was transparent. Look, everything was out in the open.

It wasn't in any way and nobody was fooled, but it did allow for teams made of both factions to get along without sullenly glaring at each other because wartime media broadcasts were being edited to put the Decepticons in the best light. Soundwave sincerely wanted Autobot input in his division. Tracking down pre-war classics was in everyone's best interests. There was actual enthusiasm in setting up the broadcast cycle line-up, most of the time, and he gave credit where credit was due.

Hence the reason he was the Decepticon Prowl approached when concerns rose over Shockwave's new tax system. Hurray for educational programs that bored everyone out of their helms but taught mechs how to calculate what they owed the government. Megatron sat through Prowl's program, called Shockwave in, and made him revise the tax system until a Decepticon grunt could actually understand it. Optimus Prime pulled Soundwave aside during that fiasco and thanked him personally for his contributions to the peace.

Of course, Starscream used the distraction to go out and hire Prowl to balance the budgets for his divisions. Soundwave could have murdered the Seeker for thinking of that first, because Prowl refused to take more than one government official as a client.

In any case, Soundwave's projects paid off the more he invested in them. Educational programs were, oddly, a hit. So was the news, which shocked no one more than the poor newscasters everyone loathed. However, it was tracking down complete runs of old shows that had businesses lining up to pay for commercial space and his assistants throwing their arms up in surrender. The centerpieces of each broadcast cycle were exactly what they'd been nine million years ago, and Soundwave had mechs beating down M&E's door pleading for more, faster, now.

With so many old shows being found and re-introduced to Cybertron, the natural result was curiosity over who the actors had been and what had happened to them. Where and who they were now if they were still alive, in some cases. Soundwave's personal pet project was making profiles for new actors and media stars as new content began to circulate. Jazz already had a fanbase forming, and he bargained hard to get part of the commercial revenue generated by broadcasting his concerts. He agreed to interviews that only boosted his popularity.

Hoist's interviews after each broadcast of old _General Practitioner_ episodes had one of the highest ratings for any rerun program yet. His story was one of the most incredible twists of fate out there. The mech who'd played doctor on the vidscreen for vorns had been so well-known for the role that he'd been forced into getting medical training during the war because everyone on the battlefield kept recognizing his face and calling for medical assistance. It was amazing what fame could do. He'd played doctor until he'd become one.

Soundwave's goal was to assemble a modern database of old movies and media stars before the new ones created unorganized chaos. He found and updated old profiles, something that took time and effort but paid off as interest in his work grew. That portion of M&E infonet set rated just under the broadcast cycle schedule for most visitors.

The problem was that finding out what had happened to people over the course of a war wasn't easy. City populations had fled Cybertron or scattered, even vanishing into the lower levels to turning up here or there under different names at different times. Many of them actively tried to discard their pasts via misdirection or starting over. There were a lot of dead ends.

The good news was that once Soundwave found as much as he could using the Decepticon records, he had access to the Autobot records. Some of them, anyway. More of them than he'd thought originally, once he'd persuaded Ratchet that his project wasn't a secret Decepticon ploy to kill off the Autobots.

That took some time. "Patient confidentiality: only applies to current medical treatment. Past records open to inspection," he said.

"In this clinic, I hold all patient information as confidential. You're imposing Decepticon medical standards on an Autobot clinic," Ratchet countered. "That's abuse of authority."

The urge to shrug and point to his faction emblem was there, but Soundwave knew the value of goodwill. Ratchet's clinic was the only medical facility currently open outside of the Darkmount hospital, and the Constructicons had issued extremely gory threats of dismemberment to the first Decepticon who got on the ex-Chief Medical Officer's nerves. They apparently had very strong opinions about encouraging the growth of Cybertron's healthcare options. The argument over at least taking an apprentice if not a teaching position for the sake of continued medical education had already made relations between Hook and Ratchet a minefield. The Constructicons weren't risking the mech closing the clinic out of sheer spite.

Soundwave silently sighed and reached for reason instead of demands. Scrapper would quit _'Maintenance Tips And Tricks'_ if he pissed Ratchet off, and there wasn't another DYI show in the works to fill that slot. That left playing nice. "I am not interested in releasing details to public perusal," he said. "Dates and causes of death are of interest. Profiles are to include a brief history of entertainment career, not history of military service."

Ratchet gave him a sharp look. "My medical records are not publically accessible for a reason. Some of those mechs you're looking for might still be alive. If they haven't come forward now, have you even thought about how they'll feel about being exposed? Not everyone wants to resume the life they lived before the war."

That gave him pause for a moment. No, he hadn't thought about it. Of all the ex-stars he'd located since starting his project, there hadn't been one who hadn't been flattered to be recognized. Initially alarmed in the case of some the Autobots - Hoist hadn't relaxed until Soundwave had enlisted one of the M&E teams to set up the interview schedule - but ultimately charmed that old history was returning. They were going to be famous again. Who wouldn't want that? Stars from lousy vidshows?

"Celebrity privacy not a concern before the war," he said slowly, still turning the idea over in his head. Even lousy stars were stars. Surely they'd enjoy the leftover fame, or even hanging their star up to shine anew. Reflector was keeping very close tabs on his database, hiring show directors, camera operators, and actors off the list as fast as they could be found. There just wasn't enough people left alive with the real life experience that Media & Entertainment needed to build into a production industry again. Talented amateurs were great, but Reflector was going out of their heads searching for people who knew what they were doing.

"We're not celebrities," Ratchet insisted. "We were soldiers, and now we're civilians. Can't you just let mechs come forward if they want to?"

Soundwave gave him a skeptical look. Right, because trusting mechs not to claim they were a famous person would work out well. He could just picture Swindle selling fake histories to people. There was a reason Shockwave jailed without trial anyone who falsified I.D. The population census he was attempting to take was a nightmare of former identities and destroyed evidence.

The old Autobot medic glared at him for a moment more before his shoulders went down. "No, of course you can't. You're you. I don't know what I expected you to say." Dragging a hand down his face, he shook his head and gave up. "I swear to Vector Sigma, I'll file so many complaints against you no medic will ever treat you or yours again if you out somebody and they get hurt." Soundwave stiffened a fraction. "Yeah, you heard me. That's a threat, and you'd better remember it."

It was more funny than it was a real threat, but the Decepticon kept it in mind while he worked at Ratchet's console. The former Autobot CMO had destroyed the Autobot personnel medical datafile right before being captured, because caring for his patients during war meant that he would refuse upon pain of torture and death to allow their medical files to be exploited. He had, the crafty old rustbucket, hard-line downloaded and encrypted the files into his internal archives to preserve the data up until the point of his own death. Not even Vortex had felt he could hack the medic safely.

Therefore, the only medical logs for the Autobot forces were in Ratchet's head. Yet another reason the Constructicons would bulldoze anyone who upset him: he was their lone source of patient history for a third of the city population.

Surrendered the Autobots might be, but not defeated. Ratchet wasn't handing over that data.

He let Soundwave poke at them under verbal agreement not to run any sketchy searches. He even provided some pointers on celebrities he'd worked on, all deceased. He liked the classic shows, and he wanted to see them remembered.

Soundwave could understand that. Understand, and exploit it for his own purposes. They understood each other well, carrier and medic.

Soundwave was well aware Jazz had sauntered into the clinic at some point to perch on a repairbay behind him like some kind of guardian angel for the medic. Since the Decepticon wasn't planning on digging any deeper than he had to - he valued things like limbs and other Constructicon-removable parts of himself more than a quick download - then Jazz's presence was unnecessary. Precautionary, perhaps, because Soundwave might have been tempted to sneak further into the medical logs if he didn't have a shadow menacing his back.

As it was, he had enough work to do in simply cross-checking names and records. The names from the credits of every vidshow and film running on the broadcast list took quite a while to run. He busied himself compiling the database profiles as fast the information popped up.

It was disappointing to get death notifications for most of them. Some of them he'd known, of course. The faction news networks had kept up with minor trivia long after the taking total control of the actual news, and claimed kills of famous people had been a popular segment among the Decepticons. He added a handful of names that Decepticon soldiers had bragged over, recalling more celebrity names as he added to the list. Confirming the kills might not be the point of pride they'd once been, but it was useful data for his work.

He added a name at the bottom, suddenly curious. A lot of mechs had died in the war, but he'd never heard this name mentioned.

Huh. It was strange that he hadn't, now that he thought about it. He hadn't heard a thing since the last film, which was…produced and sold for viewing before the Senate went down in flames. Odd that production had stopped so early on. Porn videos were fairly cheap and fast to produce, and he'd have thought that the audience would only increase for an over-the-top military hero who got spike across Cybertron and all the known colonies. Enough mechs had certainly wanted to be just like him as the war started. There were soldiers who'd idolized him as being everything a grunt should be.

Long before the war had begun, Sarge had been the hard-drinking, harder-riding action pornstar even the most dedicated valve mech would pressurize for. The war had made his _type_ common, but they were wanna-be knock-offs. They inspired disgust, not lust.

Sarge put a hook into a mech's interfacing equipment and reeled him in to be used. Soundwave hadn't even known he'd enjoy giving it to someone until the first time he downloaded a porn vid featuring Sarge.

_'__Piledriver.'_ He hadn't thought about that porn vid in a thousand vorns. It'd had the worst plot he'd ever seen, something about an evil scientist unleashing a diabolical device on a defenseless city, except the device was just an excuse to put a semi-sentient AI into a series of progressively larger and more lurid fake spikes attached to a hydraulic system. Sarge had to wrestle the device down and teach it a lesson using only the power of his valve, since his ankles and wrists had been bound by the evil scientist prior to (conveniently) being left alone to die with the city. It'd been a terrible plot to set up a mech versus frag-machine contest. It'd been cheap, silly, and not worth the memory space it took up.

He'd watched the file to digital decay. His under-used spike had _hurt_, he'd overloaded so much. He'd humped his hand, the vidscreen stand, even the end of the bed while his visor had stayed glued to the screen and Sarge's valve. The cursing, snarling soldier took every pounding thrust and demanded more. Soundwave had needed a ball joint in his hip replaced from keeping up the pace through repeated viewings. The tip of his spike rubbed down to the raw metal. He'd run out of excuses to sent his Cassettes away while he took care of the charge burning his spike to a throbbing, urgent pressure heavy between his thighs every time he turned around.

It'd been his dirtiest secret for a while. He'd positively itched to find a scarred-up military mech with a cracked optic and crooked sneer to take him so hard and often he'd be reduced to fingers and toys to satisfy someone who couldn't be satisfied. The urge to offer his spike had crawled under his plating where he couldn't get right of it. He'd been nervous for a meta-cycle, paranoid that someone would somehow detect his secret need to submit. For a mech in his position and doing his job at the time, willingly offering to please instead of be pleased was a huge gesture of weakness. It would have been turned against him in a split second.

He'd covertly purchased a spike-ring, for Primus' sake. What self-respecting mech got toys for his spike like that? Sure, it'd increased his stamina, but who wanted to be known for how long he could keep it up?

The overloads had been mindblowing, he had to admit. Whoever had filmed the Sarge porn vids knew exactly how long to tease viewers to get the best results.

Soundwave squirmed in his seat and ran the search. He really wanted to see what had happened to Sarge, now.

The search came back with nothing. That was disappointing, but really, he should have known better. Clearly, someone like Sarge would have enlisted in the Decepticons. He probably had the enlistment officer begging him to command a unit before he'd even given his designation. Soundwave might have asked to join that unit the second he saw who was in charge. Sarge just had that kind of personal presence. The carrier mech could only imagine how powerful it was in person, considering how much it affected him through a vidscreen. The slagging memory was making it uncomfortable to sit still.

He pinged the Decepticon database to run that search while continuing to search for old star names in Ratchet's files.

It was strange when the search came back negative in the Decepticon files as well. Soundwave cocked his head to the side as he paused to puzzle over that. He felt like an idiot when he realized what he'd done wrong. Fragging Pit, the old adage was right: get his spike excited and a mech became a fool.

'Sarge' was a pornstar name, not the actor's real name. He'd just have to run a photoscan search instead of a name search. That was obvious enough.

Except the file that returned was Autobot in origin, and it had no name. There was only a photoscan of a patient with the right features but the wrong paintjob, and a numb, empty look of shock that didn't fit Soundwave's memories at all. From the date, the nameless patient treated by the Autobot emergency field medical facility had been pulled from the wreckage of one of Iacon's collapsed buildings during one of the first bombing runs. After treatment, the nameless actor with Sarge's body disappeared.

Soundwave pulled all of his attention to the files, digging in earnest this time. His focus didn't escape notice. He could all but feel Jazz sliding over to breathe down the back of his neck, but a startled sound from the ex-saboteur indicated he recognized the photoscan up on the screen as Soundwave tore through records.

"Hey, I **know** that guy." For a second, hope buoyed Soundwave. "That's Sarge, right? Amazing valve, I remember that one vid where he - he's an Autobot? You're joking!"

So much for that hope. "Soundwave: rarely humorous," the distracted Decepticon muttered.

"Don't I know it. Is he still alive?"

"Status: unknown. Searching." Photoscans blurred by on the right side of the screen as Soundwave ran comparison searches through the Decepticon files. Nobody else was hitting the right features to trigger a match. "Possibly Neutral. Neutral database of survivors available for search?"

Even if Jazz knew of one, they both knew he wouldn't tell Soundwave. He shook his head. "Nothing but Shocker's census, but that ain't anything yet. Hold on, lemme…" He eased his hands under Soundwave's and typed in a quick flurry of date corrections, too curious not to help. "We had a big enlistment push right after the bombings. Anybody who didn't sign up on the spot would've gone to one of the stations throughout the city to enlist. Somebody wearing that look, they'd either run for the outer cities and only gotten involved again when forced, or they'd - " The console pinged. "Or they'd do that. Um. Yeah. **Wow.**"

Soundwave echoed his flat statement, throat flexing around a silent vocalizer. It came out a static crackle.

The two mechs stared at the screen, visors equally wide. A completely different record, registered at the same field station at the exact same time as 'Sarge' had checked in, under the same medic with the same injuries with the same history. The only difference was a different picture on the log. An edited picture, when Jazz clicked on it to check the date, apparently added when the mech officially enlisted half a stellar cycle later.

"That is an impressive cosmetic overhaul." Jazz whistled low.

"Disguised well," Soundwave agreed. "No information on reformat in Decepticon Intelligence. Autobot Intelligence?"

"Mech, if anybody in SpecOps knew about this, we'd have been in that mech's berth every night with our spikes out, sayin', _'Ride me, ride me now.'_ Ironhide would've beaten us there. He had a **shrine** to Sarge. He still has all the vids. I can hook you up," Jazz offered idly.

"Offer appreciated." He'd have to authorize creating a separate channel for the broadcast line-up, and why not? Porn vids were a form of entertainment like any other. It'd been a risqué but legitimate part of the industry before the war. A money-making part that his division could cash in on. "Pay-Per-View set-up possible."

"That is evil, and I want a cut for every vid I sweet-talk Ironhide into parting with."

"Agreed." Soundwave leaned in for a closer study of the photoscan. He'd never noticed the similarities, but he'd have never tried to see Sarge in this mech. "Likelihood of contact for interview generating favorable response?" He didn't know if his spike hatch could take the pressure if they spoke, but Polyhex would go berserk over that interview. He'd suffer for the libido of the people.

"Foooooo, you don't ask much do ya." Jazz kept his voice down and chewed on his bottom lip as he stared at the screen. "I don't know. I really don't know. He never said anything, Sounders. Whole war, and he didn't say word one. Could be embarrassment, or not wantin' people to expect something he ain't. 'Cause he ain't anything like Sarge, he's really - " A thoughtful look slowly swept his face, and Soundwave glanced back as Jazz's stare turned intent. The sentence trailed off before Jazz gave a quiet, "Huh."

"Statement inaccurate?"

"…not really? I, um, no." Because that was helpful. Soundwave gave him an unamused look. Jazz shook the strange thought away and grinned brightly. "Tell you what: lemme test how open he is to talkin' 'bout old history, and I'll pass word up the chain to you."

That would likely work better than a direct call from Media & Entertainment. "In return?"

"Can you **please** get your pretty-kitty to stop sharpening his claws on my electro-bass? It's not like I can get a replacement; that thing's **vintage**!"

"What are you two talking about over there?" Ratchet yelled from the other end of the clinic, his suspicion skewering them out of nowhere.

Jazz and Soundwave nearly slapped each other trying to hit the console screen's power button at the same time. "Nothing!"

"Those are patient medical files, not gossip to be snickering over!"

"We know!"

"Understood."

Ratchet eyed them. Soundwave nudged Jazz away, and the Autobot strolled back to his observation point dusting invisible specks of dirt off his own hood. "You'd better 'understood'," the medic grumbled, "or I'm going to 'understood' my foot up your exhaust pipes so far you'll be eating rubber."

"Gotcha, Ratchet."

"Threats: tiresome."

"I'll 'tiresome' you!"

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**_[A/N:_**_I laughed myself sick writing this. I hope you like it, NK.__**]**_


	2. Pt 2

**Title: **Call of Duty

**Warning: **Porn and pornstars. Power imbalance? Fantasies and libidos spinning out of control.

**Rating: **NC-17

**Continuity: ** G1

**Characters: ** Soundwave, Megatron, Onslaught, Jazz, Hound

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.

**Motivation (Prompt): **NK won the fic/art commission auction, and she gave us a kinkmeme prompt ( . ?thread=9152990#t9152990). Basically, whatever happened to the pornstars of Cybertron?

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**[* * * * *] **

**Part Two: Disciplinary Measures Will Be Taken **

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One of the best things about peace was that there was time to kick back and relax. Onslaught intended to do just that.

The spaceport project was fighting him bureaucratic hand over fist, and he needed time away from sorting out Swindle's latest 'deal' on perma-crete that wouldn't last through two shuttle take-offs, much less the landing of a full-sized frigate. Blast Off had stormed into his office - actually stormed, which was the most emotion Onslaught had seen him display in or out of battle - and started yelling about failed tests. The spectacle would have been fascinating if the stats he was waving over his head didn't screw their budget over six ways from Cybertron. The timetable, too, since the perma-crete had already been poured and would have to be demolished before the proper landing pads could be built.

Swindle had conveniently vanished from the buildsite. The last Grapple had seen of the conmech, there had been casual sidling going on. Casual sidling, as anyone who knew anything about Swindle knew, meant that the mech knew he was in trouble and was on his way to a bolthole. Onslaught wouldn't be pinning responsibility for this mess on him, not so long as Swindle could safely remain in hiding.

That wasn't quite true. Everybody on the buildsite put the blame on the one they all _knew_ was responsible, but unless and until Vortex could track the slippery, sneaky bugger down, Shockwave was holding _Onslaught_ accountable. Without Swindle confessing his sins, all Shockwave had was an order form that had Onslaught's signature on it. The indignant supplier refused to issue a refund on ordered, paid for, and used product, and nobody would come down on a supplier who'd done his job.

Except that _somebody_ had tweaked the order form. The specific kind of product the spaceport needed had been swapped for one that was significantly cheaper, and the difference in shanix had been pocketed somewhere between Onslaught's desk and the supplier.

Shockwave hadn't thrown Onslaught into a cell to rust because even he knew Swindle was involved. Whether or not the smallest Combaticon was to blame was up in the air, but statistically speaking, Swindle was more likely to be at fault than not whenever inferior goods turned up and money went missing. That was simply the natural order of the universe. Money gone = Swindle skimmed it.

The speculation hinged on Vortex dragging Swindle back out into the open, however, and Vortex wasn't in a hurry. He thought chasing Swindle down to be a hilarious game. The helicopter had left the office laughing. Onslaught had wanted to punch him for that, but he'd refrained. His bad mood wasn't Vortex's fault.

Directly, it was Swindle's. Indirectly, it was Blast Off's. The shuttle had disappeared for a couple days in orbit to recover from his unprecedented show of emotion, something Onslaught was glad for. Blast Off showing visible emotion was unexpectedly exhausting.

He'd turned out to be one of those mechs who ranted for a breem, settled down to fuming silence just long enough for a sensible mech to think the issue dropped, and then something, anything, would set him off again. He'd rehashed the same rant about nine times, using phrases like _"I'm not complaining, I'm just saying_." and _"It's not that I'm shapist, but mechs with that frametype._"

Breems of extremely shapist complaints later, Onslaught had pitched the prejudiced pile of walking slag out on his thrusters. There was only so much of that he could take. Blast Off had the sensitivity of a rock. At least Vortex offended people intentionally. Vastly irritating as that could be, it indicated a passing awareness that other people's emotions existed. They might not matter to Vortex other than a sign of what button to push, but the 'copter knew they were there.

Blast Off hadn't even noticed Onslaught glaring at him for being a rusted collection of offensive beliefs. He was a groundframe just like Swindle. He'd put up with snide little comments from flightframes all his blasted life, but usually mechs had the decency to say them behind his back.

It'd taken physically pitching the shuttleframe out the office door before Blast Off even got an inkling that his boss didn't want him disgracing the place. A frametype superiority complex was a workplace conversation killer of the worst kind, and yet flyers kept wondering why they couldn't keep a steady job. Ugh. It had to be a pre-war attitude carry-over, back from when city populations separated by frametype instead of faction.

Onslaught had spent the rest of the shift on his commlink. He'd browbeaten his helicopter into taking the mission seriously, resulting in a 50/50 chance of Swindle turning up in person or in a bodybag. That was an improvement of sorts, he supposed. He'd also ignored increasingly passive-aggressive pseudo-apologies from his shuttle that only succeeded in offending him further ("I didn't mean **you**, you're different than mechs like that - not that I'm shapist or anything - and I wasn't complaining, I was just saying"). Once Onslaught had gotten fed up with those, he'd spent the last cycle of his shift sending death threats into the dead end that was Swindle's comm. frequency. It might not have been productive, but it made him feel better.

Being the Combaticon commander was a lot like being trapped aboard a wooden lifeboat with a termite colony. If Onslaught sat on Swindle, the other three would destroy the boat from their own combinations of blind arrogance, stupidity, and self-destructive sadism. While he restrained them, Swindle would sell the boat from under them, compelled by inbuilt greed. There was no way to win.

He'd fired Brawl a while back, which was the equivalent of pitching dead weight overboard. The boat had been moderately easier to manage since then. Both Vortex and Blast Off tread lightly. They knew that any business desperate enough to hire them wouldn't pay slag, and most bosses were far less tolerant than Onslaught. Onslaught was used to their, ah, idiosyncrasies. Their idiocy in general, really.

As long as their usefulness outstripped their annoyance factor, he'd keep them on the payroll. As Swindle's presence had proved, Onslaught was capable of putting up with an awful lot in the name of continued business, but they were careful to stay assets instead of liabilities. Normally, they didn't test his temper this way. They weren't nearly as useful to the spaceport project as Swindle was. They could be replaced within a deca-cycle.

Swindle? Not so much.

Oh, Onslaught had every intention of turning the Jeep over to the project accountant's tender mercies once Vortex got back. Swindle would be the one handed over to Shockwave under charges of embezzlement, not Onslaught. Swindle deserved to be arrested, but if - and it was a big 'if' because Swindle really was the best at what he did; rumor had it even _Optimus Prime_ called on him - the charges stuck, the spaceport project would be down a procurer.

That was a future headache in the making. Maybe Onslaught could hire Sideswipe as a replacement until Swindle inevitably weaseled out of prison. Only until then, of course. Onslaught wanted the greedy sack of junk's head on a pike, but there was no question about hiring the mech back after the legal issues were settled. He was too fragging good at his job to not hire him. Swindle did a lot more than make money deals, and the project _needed_ him in order to run smoothly.

The merchant was relatively pleasant company outside of schmoozing, but he could talk anyone into anything when he hit his stride. In sales mode, he possessed the nigh-magical ability to charm even Huffer, Grapple, Brawn, and Gears into working efficiently. Quietly would have been a Primus-sent miracle Swindle hadn't managed yet, but there were times Onslaught wanted to nominate the mech for sainthood anyway. The smallest Combaticon could spend two shifts straight nodding earnest agreement to the latest bout of griping from the Autobot quartet of nonstop whining. Onslaught would rather shoot himself in the head than be cornered by those mechs, and he'd hired them.

He was siccing Blast Off on the Jeep the next time the shuttle got his heat panels ruffled, and it wasn't just because he currently wanted to throw Swindle into a trash compactor. The merchant had people skills. Highly-irritating-people skills.

Plus, Onslaught wanted to see Blast Off try to excuse his shapism to a groundframe who fit every single criteria for what shapists like him were prejudiced against. He imagined the shuttleframe would get an excellent taste of his own foot by the end of that conversation. Swindle would smile that encouraging salesmech smile, nod without agreeing, and let Blast Off talk himself into an uncomfortable verbal corner from whence there was no dignified escape.

That a mental picture to savor. Heh heh heh.

But that was a plan for another day, a day long after Vortex found Swindle. For now, Onslaught was finished with his shift. His commlink was offline, blocking Blast Off's sulky messages and anything else to do with his job. He could do that these days. The war was over, and therefore constant contact wasn't necessary. His emergency contact information was for precisely that: emergency. His secretary had it, and Onslaught was fairly sure nothing short of people running around _on fire_ could convince Groove that there was an actual emergency requiring him to be called in. Even in that unlikely event, Groove would first recommend everyone go for a drive to calm down.

Groove didn't do panic. Groove occasionally did strange liquids in funny colors (First Aid had a controlled-substances medical testing permit, theoretically), but he didn't do panic. Onslaught's contact information was safe in his hands.

That left nothing but free time on the schedule until the next shift. Onslaught intended it to be spent in blissful isolation.

The absolute best thing about peace was the ability to live by himself, do things by himself, and own things that didn't get smashed, stolen, or hijacked for use by anyone else. He already had to work with other people; the last thing he wanted to do was share his off-duty time with them. The other Combaticons had never even been invited through his door, and they never would be if he had anything to say about it.

The one time Vortex had picked the lock and invited himself in had been the last. Onslaught had caught him drinking his highgrade. He'd promptly shot the 'copter. Then he'd successfully pressed charges against him for harassment, home invasion, and burglary.

Vortex hadn't known how to face charges brought by his own gestalt commander, much less how to deal with a civilian court based off of a military court that had his military history on hand. One or the other he could have handled. Everything at once had overwhelmed him. Onslaught had counted on that.

Peace was, as he was discovering every day, strangely satisfying. He didn't have to put up with half the scrap he'd had to during the war. Didn't like Blast Off's attitude? Kick him out of the office. Brawl got into another fight? Fire him. Swindle robbed him? Let the project accountant turn him inside-out, take the refund out of him, and bring him up on embezzlement charges. It wasn't Onslaught's problem anymore. Barring execution, anything that happened to the other Combaticons was no longer his concern. A professional annoyance, perhaps, but nothing personal.

As Vortex had discovered, much to his bewilderment. It turned out that laughing off the charges didn't work so well. Neither did mocking the authority of the appointed judge at that particular court. This was a different Cybertron, one with a Decepticon judicial system well aware of Vortex the interrogator, mindfragger, sadist, and killer. By the time the judge had all the additional charges for contempt, threatening behavior, and various, possibly made-up legal violations stacked up on top of Onslaught's case, Vortex had faced vorns as a prisoner in the smelterworks.

The other Combaticons didn't care. Forced labor wasn't a death sentence and wasn't the Detention Centre. Frag, it'd keep him out of their way for the length of his sentence. Fabulous. That sounded great. They wouldn't be lifting a finger to help him.

Vortex's humble, crawling plea for an out-of-court settlement was still Onslaught's ringtone. The whole thing. He let the entire audio file play through before picking up his personal comm. frequency. It sounded like perfect victory, every time.

He slouched down and casually flicked through the entertainment options on the vidscreen taking up one full wall of his flat. Primus, he loved this thing. It was bigger than his altmode and had been bought from the growing stash of money Vortex paid him as part of the settlement. Half the mech's pay, every deca-cycle, right on time.

The entertainment screens had changed since he'd sat down to flick through them last. Media & Entertainment couldn't just let a good thing be. They had to keep making it better.

Onslaught relaxed further, kicking one heel up onto the end of the couch. The remote clicked as he channelsurfed happily.

Huh, _General Practitioner_. He remembered that show. Not really what he wanted to watch tonight, but he bookmarked the screen for another time.

A separate DYI channel had shown up, full of shows from people like Scrapper and Red Alert. Nope, not interested. Do-It-Yourself was for mechs who couldn't afford to Pay-Someone-Else.

No, no action vids tonight. That might get his fuel pump rate up, and that wouldn't do. Becoming one with the couch was the extent of his life goals at the moment. Excitement would be counter-productive to that goal.

He skipped past the nature channel without pausing.

Tracks had a reality show now? Fashion, of course, and that explained why everyone on the buildsite kept stopping to call in votes at mid-shift. He'd better not watch it, or he'd get sucked into the world of repaints, buffing, model makeovers, and photography. There was something horribly addictive about watching contestants pose, preen, and scramble for first place.

_Welcome to the Gun Show_ might be worth watching this cycle. Guest starring Chromia and Ironhide wasn't quite at the level of inviting, say, Wheeljack onto the show, but explosions were guaranteed.

Well then. "This is new," Onslaught murmured, sitting straighter. "Padding the Media & Entertainment branch's budget a little, are we, Soundwave?" Pay-Per-View was definitely a new selection screen. He'd have remembered it being there before. Swindle would have certainly told him about it, even if he'd missed it somehow.

Swindle was already rolling in shanix after selling his sales experience to new businesses looking to buy commercial spots from M&E, but Pay-Per-View meant that Soundwave was now selling access to content. That was a brand new opening in the post-war entertainment industry.

Glee bubbled up in Onslaught's spark. Swindle had to be tying himself into teeny-weeny burning knots of greed versus common sense. Conflicted purple optics were probably staring at the screen right this moment, knowing Vortex would find him the klik he contacted anyone to exploit this wide-open commercial opportunity. But it was right there. Waiting. Tempting.

That greed glitch would erode anything in its path given enough time. Swindle was going to have plenty of time to see himself putting his own neck on the chopping block.

Mm, good thoughts.

He scrolled through the vidfilm options. They'd better not be showing snuff films, because he'd strangle Vortex if the 'copter showed up on the vidscreen without warning him first. The buildsite crew would take a deca-cycle to calm down enough to work with the mech again.

Although it didn't look like the choices were violent. There were a dozen old vidfilms that were obviously there for those who were too impatient to wait for the regular broadcast cycle to run. Then there was one vidfilm that could have been used as an example of 'one of these things is not like the others.' The ratings jump was like none other.

The summary alone had Onslaught's temperature gauge climbing. He _remembered _that actor. Sarge used to be _the_ macho fantasy mech for anybody involved in the military before the war. Maybe especially for those who liked the look and attitude of military mechs sans the undesirable traits of people who were actually in the military. Having been in the Decepticons for so long, Onslaught could say with utter certainty that not many combat veterans could pull off the sexual aspect like Sarge had.

Just remembering triggered his interface equipment. He'd spent far too long among swaggering pompous afts with bad hygiene and worse attitudes. In a faction that emphasized size as an indicator of influence and power, Onslaught had forgotten what mechs with charisma were like. Megatron could pull it off. So could Swindle. Sarge, though. He bled confidence, the self-assurance of someone who knew he could take on a battalion in every conceivable way. He was badaft without being big, covered in guns and glory without losing an inch in sex appeal, and what he lost in size he more than made up for in flexibility.

He also had a way of jerking his chin at the camera that made a mech want to fall to his knees in front of the screen. Raw, primal magnetism filled every move he made.

This was a terrible idea. This was a wonderful, terrible idea. Onslaught had half his credit account number entered before he even realized he'd selected the vidfilm. This one! Fragging Primus in the Pit but did he remember this one. _'Sarge returns a hero to the barracks, but it seems his unit has been shipped off. Instead, he has ten new recruits to train. Unruly, unkempt, and untamed, they need an officer to get them hard and ready. Does Sarge have what it takes to **discipline** them?'_

The last number clicked in. Somebody over in M&E now had far too much information about what the Combaticon commander did in his spare time. He should be worried about that, concerned for his public image, but at the moment he couldn't care less. He zipped through the last approval screen and sat forward on the couch. His visor locked on the screen.

A pale crackle of white static filled it as the old vidfilm started. Porn vids had never been of high quality to begin with. Time hadn't helped preserve quality, it seemed.

Empty sky, dark but scattered with stars, and then the stark blaze of a training ground floodlight. Against it, a sudden black silhouette. Musings on vidfilm quality slammed to a halt, and Onslaught's ventilation system stopped. The remote crumpled around the edges as his hand tensed.

Broad shoulders marked with the signature stars, a narrow waist that allowed for bending in every conceivable direction, and a chest made entirely of old weld-scars and broken glass. Clean, but not polished; short, but not squat; military correct posture, but radiating a sense that the military had based the stance off what he did instead of the other way around. A chiseled jaw, blocky helm, a gun barrel, a machete hilt, and thighs spread wide enough a mech could fit his face between them.

When the camera panned down Sarge's body, Onslaught's fans flipped from 'off' to 'high' with no stop in between. Those scars looked like he could fit his fingers in them, and those shoulders against the floodlights made him want them over him, blocking out the light just like that. An HUD error pinged Onslaught to open his vents to let the fans actually do something when the camera finally started back up. Heat billowed out into the room abruptly.

He panted air rapidly, trying to cool down. This was ridiculous. The vid had barely even started!

The pan upward revealed enough ammunition to take on Primus Himself, one cracked optic that could see anything a mech tried to hide from it, and the most unimpressed scowl Cybertron had ever seen. "Atten-**hut**!" bellowed through the speakers, and Onslaught nearly snapped to his feet.

The camera pulled back to see a group of filthy combat frames. They sneered and sauntered into a loose approximation of a formation. Sarge's unimpressed sneer deepened, and he directed it straight through the screen into Onslaught's living room to judge him unworthy of venting exhaust. Onslaught quivered where he sat upright, fans stalled under that glare. Hands and remote were tangled together in his lap as if to cover the embarrassing whirr of his spike starting to pressurize.

Oh, Primus, this was why only powerful mechs used their valves. Mechs didn't use spikes; spikes used mechs. The weaker a mech, the more he popped his spike hatch. Spikes were beyond control once fragging came up, and a stiff one was impossible to hide. There was nothing quite like having a body part that betrayed how even a mech who scorned his very existence turned him on. A thoroughly disdainful look, and his spike thudded against its hatch. Onslaught's shoulders hunched, and his fingers twined together in his lap.

"**Look** at the lot of yuh!" Sarge spat in a thick Rust Sea drawl. "I ain't seen a worse bunch'uh scum since I scraped the bottoms of my feet. Well, I'll clean yuh up." The camera pulled back, and the leader of the group scoffed. Sarge stepped up into his face to curl a (decoratively split) lip and give him a once over. "I'll whip yuh into shape, yuh lazy good-for-nothing wastes uh space. Yuh'll know yer place after I'm done whitcha."

"Oh yeah? And where's that?" one of the others piped up.

Sarge yanked the leader down to his knees, and there was a close-up shot at visor-to-crotch level. "Under me," the rust-camouflage officer told him with a good shot of his smug expression from down below. The innuendo oozed, it was so blatant, and even more blatant was the leader's tongue coming out to lick his lips, his visor focused on pelvic armor for a long, endless moment.

Anticipation crawled up the back of Onslaught's neck and clicked his spike hatch open loud enough to echo in the empty apartment. He scooted forward on the couch, knees pressed tightly together to cover how his spike pressurized so fast it made his processor whirl. The stupid porn vid dialogue had him ridiculously turned on, and he couldn't even pretend he was stronger than this. He was weak. He had no control. His interface array had taken over his thoughts, and the only thing in his head was how desperately he wanted to interface.

The cheesy plot was so obviously meant to move things on to the porn that he was getting antsy just listening. His spike throbbed in rhythmic waves with the pulse of hydraulic pumps, and his thighs eased apart to allow one hand to sneak down and touch himself.

It was entirely predictable, of course. Sarge got the unit into the washracks, and there was some mild sparring that Onslaught could recognize as completely choreographed now that he'd actually fought in a war. He remembered being impressed by how easily Sarge tossed the larger combatframes around, before. Now he was more impressed by the camera angles that allowed it to look like ten mechs could get their afts kicked by one smaller mech without causing any visible damage beyond some scuff marks.

And then there was the best camera angle of all, panning up from the lead soldier's perspective. Onslaught pressed his thighs together around his hands, hard around his spike, as the camera slowly, slowly worked its way up thick armor, thighs that were made to be grabbed, and -

He didn't moan, but it was a close thing. Yeah. Yeah, this was what he remembered about the Sarge vidfilms. That _valve_. The producers of the Sarge series had done a wonderful service to first person perspective porn by putting the viewer in the place of the various conquests of Sarge, military action hero. The camouflage paintjob lightened to a glistening, polished silver, the contour rings up inside catching the light in slivers of barely-visible moving parts that gleamed like liquid mercury as lubricant trickled down.

Onslaught's spike popped free of his hands and thighs to bob in open air, eager and needing. Never had Onslaught wanted to use it more than when Sarge spread his legs and told him to get down there on the double. He was on his knees in front of the screen without even thinking about it.

"I said," Sarge growled in that rough-edge voice, "get down there and clean. Yuh need to learn to follow through on orders, and no time like the present. Yuh ain't getting up until I'm," the camera jolted as the leader's face was yanked flush to the edge of that valve, "**satisfied** yuh did a good job. Got that?"

"Yeah," came breathily through the speakers, and Onslaught thought about getting off his knees and back onto the couch for about a second. Then a tongue came on screen, licking up into that waiting valve. The Combaticon's finger's curled, and he made a little sound as the valve clamped down tight enough to make metal squeal. "I mean - yeth **thir**!"

Dignity was long gone. Onslaught was sitting back on his knees in front of the vidscreen, spike out in his hand, hips rocking in time with the frantic lapping and close up shot of the drip of lubricant off armor. He didn't really care about dignity at the moment. He cared that with a screen this big, he could almost see up into Sarge's valve past the licking. If he squinted his visor out of focus, he could raise his hand and pretend it was his fingers slipping in to pull it wide open.

"I say you could put your filthy paws on me?!" roared from the speakers, and a yelped chorus of _'No sir!'_ came in surround sound. Onslaught might have said something, too, but he was panting too hard to notice if he'd been part of the chorus. The noises spilling out of his vocalizer were small and urgent, and he couldn't stop himself from leaning forward like he was the one lapping in renewed obedience. The fingers pulled out, his hand going to the floor to keep his balance, and it was just a shot of that valve flexing around the tongue working in and out of it. His hand squeezed and stroked faster and faster, spike twitching as he imagined plunging into that slick, hot valve in time with the thick sounds from the speakers.

He fell back as Sarge's palm filled the screen, throwing him down. The old soldier snarled a command, and Onslaught flung his wrists above his head, neck straining to watch past his erect spike as Sarge straddled him. What a view, what a _view_, but he wasn't allowed to touch himself or the battered knuckles in and out of that tight, responsive valve he could practically taste -

- what the frag, he didn't even have a mouth -

- until Onslaught was promising, "I'll be good, sir! I will! I'll do whatever you say! Anything you say, sir, please sir, please take me sir!"

"Yuh ain't been doing too good-a job so far at that," Sarge snorted, Hands appeared at his waist, lifting him off Onslaught while the Combaticon whined in frustration. Helm and heels took Onslaught's weight as his hips rode up after that valve.

Although this was almost as good, because the camera switched to another soldier's perspective. One hand braced against the washrack wall, Sarge bent forward and slapped his other hand back to grab the soldier by the hip and pulling him into place. "And don't yuh stop 'til I'm done with yuh!" the officer growled as he took that spike in one buck of his hips. "Yuh're here for one reason and one only: something hard t'use. Got that?" Panting grunts answered him, and Onslaught scrambled back to sit against the abandoned couch, visor locked on the gasping, clanging grind on the screen while his hand frantically wrung his spike from root to tip.

"No, wait, sir, I'm almost there," he pleaded under the whirr of his fans when Sarge contemptuously pushed the second solder away.

"Yuh're ready to blow already? I ain't even **near** heated, and yuh think yuh're done? Getcher lazy aft up and at-'em, or I'll find someone who can do his duty and yuhrs while he's at it. I could replace yuh with any mech in here - frag, with a gun barrel! - and buff my sensors better than yuh're doing. Yuh'all need **discipline**!" snapped him in a way that was more command than anything. "Yuh'all need it, and I'm not walkin' outta here 'til one-a yuh manages to stay hard long enough for a real frag. So help me, scrapheap, I catch yuh not at the ready, I'll have yur laid out every shift learning the meaning of combat readiness under **real** pressure."

That was the dirtiest piece of double-entendre Onslaught had heard, and he'd never be able to do an inspection again without imagining what kind of combat he was getting ready for. He whimpered as he pinched the tip of his spike, because Primus help the soldier who overloaded before Sarge was done with him.

"That's what I thought," huffed at him. "I want yuh at the ready. Yuh pump twice and mess, and I ain't even revved. Get back to work, oilguzzler!" Those grabbable thighs were dead center on the screen again, and the camera did a quick pan around the washrack to show the whole unit in disarray, spikes out and hovering on the verge of coming on the floor. "Come at me! I can take yuh all, see if I can't!"

Onslaught hadn't remembered how good the Sarge films were until everything came to one climactic ending and the credits rolled. He was left shivering on the floor, still on his knees, spike limp in his hand as he stroked a last spurt out in a tremble of overworked hip joints thrusting into his hand. The after-image of Sarge arching back as he finally came stayed in his mind. That'd been worth every credit he'd spent.

He'd have bought another viewing if he had the stamina for a second round, but his fuel pump was thundering fast enough to make his helm ring as it was. Onslaught just squeezed his spent spike and breathed deep, remembering the sweet sight of a valve too flexible to be real as it took fingers, tongues, the washrack shower nozzle, and three mechs' spikes. Sarge had ridden them all, sneered as he outlasted their best efforts to make him respond how they wanted, do what they lusted. Instead, he'd brought them all to overload on command, fully disciplined at last.

If only that method worked on real soldiers.

Fumbling for the remote, Onslaught turned off the screen. It took two tries to get back to his feet. Woo, okay, that'd been a bit more intense than he'd thought. He wasn't even a blasted submissive mech in the berth, yet he'd been squealing on command at the end. Primus. He needed to look up whatever had happened with that series. There had been a bunch of vidfilms the last he knew, and he kind of needed to see them all again, now. If Soundwave was going to put them up on Pay-Per-View, then Onslaught was going to buy a slagging subscription. M&E was going to know things about his personal life that would scar them for life.

Maybe there were more films. New films. Somebody would have said something if Sarge had died, right? And pornstars didn't retire. They just rested between epic bouts of fragging.

He'd think about it later. He had a big chunk of free time to spend looking it up.

Onslaught collapsed on the couch and passed out.

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**[* * * * *]**


	3. Pt 3

**Title: **Call of Duty

**Warning: **Porn and pornstars. Power imbalance? Fantasies and libidos spinning out of control.

**Rating: ** NC-17

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Soundwave, Megatron, Onslaught, Jazz, Hound

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors.

**Motivation (Prompt): **NK won the fic/art commission auction, and she gave us a kinkmeme prompt ( . ?thread=9152990#t9152990). Basically, whatever happened to the pornstars of Cybertron?

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**[* * * * *]**  
**Part Three: Ve Have Vays of Making You Talk **

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The shoulders weren't as broad. The ammunition belts were gone. The guns and the machete Megatron recalled being used in ways they really shouldn't have been were also gone. The scarred chestplate had been replaced by headlights and the front grill of an Earth vehicle. Swindle had a similar altmode.

That gave him a deeper aversion to seeing Sarge in this mech. Bad enough he was an Autobot; even worse that he resembled Swindle in any way.

Megatron frowned and studied the picture on the screen, hoping that there would be something he could pick out as obviously wrong. Nothing stood out. "Are you certain this is the same mech?" His question doubted, but he couldn't unsee it now that he was looking for it. This was - or had been, anyway - Sarge.

The waist, yes. That was the same. It was narrow enough to invite a mech's hands to rest on it, and flexible underneath the heavy altmode armor above and below. Those thighs could still be the same, allowing for changes made by a different vehicle mode. They were less powerful off the vidscreen, but in reality, the Autobot was small, much smaller than erotic dreams and good camera angles had painted him in Megatron's fantasies. The unadorned black pelvic span looked just as heavy as in the pornvids, however. The thighs were more of an accent and handholds for the valve Megatron could easily picture opening up between them.

His frown deepened into a scowl to hide the pensive furrow forming between his optics. This was Sarge, alright. The helm shape was actually fairly similar, close enough to the right shape that he felt somewhat foolish for not seeing the resemblance sooner, but it helped to know that apparently no one else had, either. Besides, the face under the rugged angles was all wrong.

It was disappointing to find out that the scars had all been cosmetic. Megatron had originally wanted to keep all of his battlescars, back when the war started. He'd thought they granted him a certain dramatic flair.

"97% certainty." Soundwave shifted uncomfortably and tapped a few keys, bringing up a few extra pictures for comparison. "I have not confirmed identity with Autobot Hound, and Autobot Jazz has not reported results of contacting him for an interview. Steps taken to leave past behind suggest he may not wish to reclaim his past identity."

Sarge sneering and Sarge flashing a roguish grin were brought up side-by-side with Hound bird-watching on Earth and Hound smiling bashfully at the camera. Megatron's face twisted, disbelief and disgust turning his tanks as he looked from one side to the other. The last pictures to pop up were the Autobot's prisoner induction photoscan and the photoscan attached to his business permit application. One showed a weary soldier with dull finish and defeated optics; the other had Hound positively beaming out of the screen, holding one of the flowers he imported for his garden shop here in Polyhex.

Megatron's processors took in the data they were handed and fumbled it, trying to fit square pegs into round holes. There had to be something here he wasn't seeing, because he did not look at the cheerful gardener who regularly sent Optimus Prime bouquets of foil-flower hybrids and think 'Sarge.' That blasted scout _could not be_ the same mech he would have gladly popped his panel for, anytime and anywhere. It just wasn't possible!

Sarge had shoulders broader than Megatron's own, or at least the attitude to make it seem like he did. Thinking about it, Megatron winced as reality forced him to revise his memories of Sarge in light of the mech who'd played the role. It'd been sheer screen presence that made him seem to loom over enemy soldiers and fill a room, not size. Hound was probably the right size, really.

He was the right everything, now that Megatron made himself see it. Lose some shoulder armor and change out the chest piece for something functional instead of what had likely been a cover over his altmode's front end, and replace the cracked optic that'd probably been a fake. The facial scars were cosmetic. The shin armor must have been removable, too. A different paint job in Cybertron's camouflage colors instead of Earth's would go a long way toward making Hound look right, and it had to have been camera angles that'd made him taller than he was in reality.

That made sense. Real mechs didn't go around silhouetted by explosions and constantly cast in the best light to make a cracked optic look sexy instead of pitiable.

It made him wonder when the scout had gotten his hologram projector. That had probably gone a long way in furthering his career in porn, if it'd been a modification Hound installed before the war.

It also made him wonder if the Autobot ever -

That wasn't a thought he should be having.

Soundwave cocked his head at him as Megatron reset his vocalizer.

Rather than meet the question in Soundwave's visor, he stood up and walked around the desk to get a different angle on the screen. Okay, fine. He'd admit that the helm, the waist, and maybe the thighs were the same. The hips had a different shape to the armor, but they were strong and wide enough to make Megatron's throat work as he looked at them. The chest was roughly the same size. The distinctive stars were the same. They were even in the same spots. Frag, he should have noticed _that_, at least.

The face threw him off. And it didn't help that his circuits heated the longer he stared at the pictures. Was there a single picture of Sarge in the entire series where he didn't pose like an invitation to frag? Well, more like a demand. If it wasn't the spread legs, it was the fingers subtly parted to suggest a ready valve.

Megatron had to turn his face away from Soundwave, that inappropriate curiosity about the hologram projector and past acting experience nagging at his thoughts.

Soundwave was busy studying the ceiling anyway, so he didn't notice. "Autobot Hound has caused no trouble since surrender. Business permit applied for: botanical import shop. No interested expressed in revisiting previous career field."

Primus knew there would be producers lining up to film him if he did. The entire Media & Entertainment branch would fall over itself to set that up. Megatron darted a look toward the screen and licked his lips. The audience was eager, if the numbers from Soundwave's Pay-Per-View venture said anything. Change some details, and Sarge would be back on the screen in no time.

The friendly optics of Hound were a bright, cheerful blue that Megatron wanted to see angry and a piercing yellow. Add some cosmetic lines to disguise the easy smile and make his face more forbidding, perhaps a contrasting stripe on the chin to make the jawline stronger, the whole face blockier, blunter, and -

He ripped his optics away and denied the request from his ventilation system. No, he was not overheating, and he didn't need to cool down. He was discussing a weird piece of present-day trivia with Soundwave, who shared a lot of history with him. Soundwave, who knew far too much about how a young, inexperienced faction leader had once based himself off of a series of porn vids about a particular action hero who could crush entire battalions in his well-exercised and rarely-satisfied valve.

He had the abrupt, utterly mortifying thought that Hound - a.k.a. Sarge, a.k.a. an actor, a.k.a. an Autobot - might have picked up on that fact. Not that Megatron had ever copied anything wholesale! He hadn't needed that much help. He'd needed to borrow some confidence, not an entire command style. There was no way Hound would have noticed anything, not even that one speech where the sexual double-meaning couldn't have passed over anyone's head, but still. _What if he had?_

"I want to speak with him," Megatron blurted, then reset his vocalizer and pretended he'd meant to say that. "Perhaps he can be persuaded to guest star in one of your channel specials. The Pay-Per-View options are bringing in enough extra income to make the other branches envious of your budget." Shockwave had been making noises about taking some of Soundwave's budget away. "Call it an experiment in selling commercial space. I'm sure businesses would fight for a spot on that show."

Soundwave's head snapped to the side, and a wide visor stared at him. That made him feel better about his own unease. If Soundwave was giving him that look, then the Autobot had them both equally on edge. Soundwave would have already spoken to the Autobot, otherwise.

What were they so alarmed for? It was Hound, a low-ranking Autobot scout. The only reason Megatron knew about him at all was the holograms he was known for manipulating. The mech had been a particularly frustrating thorn in the Decepticons' side during their time on Earth because of that. Other than that single equipment specialty, he didn't stand out at all.

True, the rocket launcher was oversized for his frametype. A fine piece of armament in its own right, it had to take some skill to use, and not just in the point-and-fire sense. The scanners attached to it had to be tied into his hologram projector as well, considering how he had fooled every Decepticon on Earth at least once. The Autobot had pulled quite a few foolhardy, almost daredevil stunts now that Megatron thought back on it. Brave, then, and able to use overpowered weaponry as well as equipment that took deft handling. Not that much different than -

Megatron hurriedly sat down, blinking his optics back into focus. "I want him here," he said, grateful that his voice didn't sound any different. A little rasp was normal, for him. "Find an excuse."

Soundwave hesitated a long moment before nodding. "As you command," he said before standing to leave. If it was more of a flustered retreat than a calm withdrawal, nobody but Megatron would ever know.

It wasn't as though his leader was watching him leave. Megatron had his own issues right now.

A gear pinged in Megatron's jaw as he stared down at the screen. He'd get to the bottom of this. He'd find out if this Autobot really was the mech who'd starred in the red-light shows in the lower levels of Kaon. He couldn't believe it.

He might believe it.

It could be true.

It probably was true. Soundwave wouldn't fail him. The Autobot Hound had been the pornstar Sarge.

Megatron could accept that. He would accept that, disappointing as it was. He'd thought he'd lost all of his idols and heroes during the war, but it turned out that there was one last dream left to crush. All this time, he'd nurtured the absurd fantasy of someday meeting the incredibly sexy old soldier who'd inspired him, once upon a time.

Of course, the old fighter would be grudgingly impressed by Megatron's own accomplishments. How could he not? Megatron had led the Decepticons through a civil war to victory, and he was the victorious conqueror.

He could almost picture how it would have gone. Sarge wasn't one to tolerate authority figures who rested on their laurels, but he respected the ones who deserved respect. Sarge would have respected _him_, he was sure.

Narrow red optics glanced up at the door. Soundwave would send the Autobot to him, and Hound wouldn't have a choice but to come. Megatron held the power on Cybertron. A lowly scout, an Autobot at that, was a nobody. A shanix could buy six of his frametype out on the street. Megatron could have him for free by snapping his fingers. What mech wouldn't want him? What mech could resist the ruler of an entire planet?

Megatron commanded a planet. He led the Decepticons. He had an army at his fingertips. Officers clicked to attention when he passed. Soldiers leapt to obey his orders. Hound was a loner who'd seen better days and tried to move on past those glory days into a quiet life. Being brought to Megatron's presence, given the attention others fought for, would bring back the memories of who he'd been and what he'd done.

It wouldn't take much at all to bring Sarge out. After that, there was a certain inevitability about such things, wasn't there? It came down to whether or not Megatron could handle the legend - or perhaps, if the legend could live up to the reality.

He leaned back in his chair and smirked across the room, palms against the front of the desk and fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm on the top. The mech he studied wasn't terribly impressive in person. Reality disappointed again. There were weldscars everywhere on heavy armor, and the cracked optic had limited vision. Hands better suited to the hilt of a gun were clasped behind him in an easy parade rest. He looked like a veteran dragged off the training ground after running a platoon ragged getting them into shape.

He looked ready to chew up and spit out a mission assignment, any mission assignment. An insolent smirk met Megatron halfway. That, at least, lived up to the reputation. His temperature gauge told Megatron how much he was looking forward to seeing what else stayed true.

Although it was easy to see how Sarge might have hidden behind a meek Autobot personae. Weary of war, tired of being sneered at by idiot rookies he had to keep proving himself to endlessly. It was a cycle that would grind anyone down. Easier to retire into hobbies, indulging a strange botanical interest, than have to beat sense into everyone. But Megatron _knew_. Sarge couldn't hide whom he'd been behind time and a harmless facade anymore.

Perhaps he realized that, because he didn't make an attempt to keep up the mask. The thick Rust Sea accent was just like Megatron remembered it. "Yuh wanted to see me, sir?"

He pushed his seat out and strolled around the desk, letting his height advantage sink in as he got closer. Not so tall now, eh? "So I did. It seems there's been some question about your...identity."

A bark of laughter answered him, and the blocky helm tipped so a sly look could be directed up to meet his gaze. "I'm Sarge, sir. Who else'm I supposed to be?"

Some mechs had the attitude to make up for size. This mech's attitude could make a cityformer back off . The hot sweep of optics glided down Megatron from helm to foot, melting down him like an oil bath made of blatant invitation and daring.

He recovered enough to make the step back look casual. "I've been told you're an Autobot," he said, circling the smaller mech - he had to keep reminding himself that he was the larger mech here, he _was_ - and nodding as if in thought. "Care to comment on the accusation?"

"This an official interrogation?" Sarge drawled, turning to catch his optics again, and suddenly Megatron felt like he was looking _up_ at the old war veteran. Disarmed and humbled by defeat, Sarge still radiated casual confidence strong enough to make anyone think he was the one in power, here. "War's over, sir. Ain't got any reason to pump me for information."

"Oh, the war is over," Megatron agreed. He stopped in front of the old soldier and looked down at him, shoulders back as he reminded himself that he had him exactly where he wanted. "You're being called to answer for past crimes." _He_ was in charge. Yes? Yes. Him, not Sarge.

"An' what crimes are those?" A weld-scarred lip twitched up in a knowing grin. "Der-i-lic-tion of du-ty?" he drew out, exaggerating the pronunciation in a way that should not have made his teeth flash and tongue slide behind them that way.

The leader of the Decepticons should not be watching that mouth shape words that way. A commander of legions should not feel small and rubbery at the knees just because Sarge was walking forward, herding him back against the desk, a cocky hitch to that familiar strut and cracked optic glittering wickedly in the suddenly dim lighting of the office. It wasn't like he'd ever thought about this exact scenario, in all the vorns of war. He might have fantasized about commanding Sarge, about impressing the old fighter with his accomplishments and skills, but he hadn't ever thought about looking up at that cocky grin, pressed back and giving way before him.

Of course not.

"Sir, I gotta say. I'm a bit offended by yuh words. Feeling like I gotta prove my worth or something."

"Or something?" It slipped out before Megatron could stop it, a shrill question freed by the surprising speed in which Sarge stooped down to take his knee out from under him. A hipcheck later, and Megatron's hands shot up to hold onto impossibly broad, strong shoulders as the desk ambushed him from behind. Shock alone gave Sarge the time to wedge himself between the tyrant's legs.

A big hand groped crudely between his thighs. "Or something. Maybe I should be the one asking questions. Yuh wanna bring up past crimes, **Decepticon**, I gotta start taking sides. Yuh think yuh can resist an Autobot like me?"

"I - " How could someone built for military service have fingers that could do _that_? Megatron's comeback died in a hoarse groan as the manual cover over his spike was coaxed open. He started to buck his hips, intending to throw the traitor, the spy, the _enemy_ off him, but the Autobot's other hand gripped his throat in an iron grasp that threatened to tear out vital conduits. At the same time, fingers dipped in to find his most vulnerable components and wake them.

His hands shot down to take his weight on the desk, because his legs gave out. Slumping back on the desk, he hissed through his teeth at the teasing glide of fingertips over his unpressurized spike. "You dare. You **dare**.My Decepticons will never let you live."

"Yeah, I dare," Sarge taunted him, giving a little twist and wiggle of his fingers that had the mech under him jolting in sudden, involuntary arousal. "Yuh gonna stop me? Don't think yuh called me here to let me go without some…satisfaction, if yuh get my drift." His hands gave a rotating stroke, just in case Megatron hadn't gotten the point. "'Sides, yuh really want them in here to see yuh like this? Wide open," stroke, "humming for it," squeeeeeze, "and knowing yuh'll be jacking yuhself off the second I'm hauled off in chains."

A groan fought out of Megatron's vocalizer, and his thighs shook as a thumb played with the tip of his spike. He was fully erect, hard and disgracefully eager. His systems were audibly humming, and he was entirely too aware of it now that it'd been pointed out to him. He could repress the betraying whirr of his fans, but his whole body gave him away.

"Every mech out there'll know yuh like it like this. One yuhr back, waitin' to be used. **Askin'** to be used, 'cause yuh want it, yuh want it bad."

Megatron bit the inside of his lip and arched, optics shutting off to hide how conflicted he felt as Sarge leaned down to drag a wet, hot tongue up his length. The soft flick of pressure on the tip teased him with his vulnerability. He was splayed on the desk, open to whatever pleasure or pain was to be inflicted on him, and he couldn't even pretend that wasn't half the turn-on. He wanted to be toyed with like this.

A cruel chuckle rewarded the clamp of his thighs around armored hips. Megatron was giving in, and Sarge knew it. "Hard in half a klik. A service mech through and through. Ready to please, aintcha?"

"Stop," Megatron said. It was a pathetic protest. His hands clenched on the edge of the desk, fingers opening and closing as he fought his desires. He should push the tormenting rush of air exhaled on his spike away, fight free of the hand on his neck, and destroy this fool himself.

"Stop?" Sarge let go of his neck, taunting him with a knowing look when Megatron didn't immediately lash out. He took a step back that only succeeded in pulling the tyrant's hips off the desk, because Megatron wasn't letting him go. Oh yeah, he wanted this. "I can stop. Or I can," he sank to his knees between silver thighs, grinning demonically wide, "keep going."

Fans whirred. Heat began to billow from wide-open fan vents. Megatron stared down at the scarred lips hovering over his spike. His vulnerable, erect, ready spike that throbbed in rhythmic waves that he had no control over at all. There were no cables to flex and work, no calipers to use to massage until his lover was driven mad. No, he was the one who'd come in a shamefully short time if the mech blowing on the tip was as good at swallowing as he was at talking.

But his pride was effectively dead already from Sarge getting him out like this in the first place. He couldn't be ground any lower, be any more humiliated, have any more control taken away from him. The enemy sucking him off was just one more submission.

"Leave," he grated out.

"Leave?" Sarge gave him an innocent look that brushed his helm over the spike in his face. Megatron made a sound deep in his throat. "Right now?"

His fists creaked as he tightened them on the edge of the desk, a symbol of his power now turned into a shameful monument to his ravishing. He'd never be able to sit here without remembering the aching need someone else made him stiff with. "Finish what you came here to do," he ordered, hating himself, "and then leave. Never come back, or I'll kill you."

Sarge met his optics and nodded solemnly, and they both knew the Autobot would keep his word. He was a brutal killer, but he had his own code of honor. This wasn't the first time he'd had an enemy helpless and begging for him. Megatron would never see him again, and what happened in this office would be kept between them.

A strong hand tossed one of Megatron's legs over a broad shoulder, and Sarge bent his head. The Decepticon gasped, hips thrusting forward to meet him, and the sweet, forbidden taste of surrender had him moaning as much as the clever mouth settling over his spike.

"Gnnk."

The grunt sounded unnaturally loud in the empty office, as did the soft, wet splatter from overload. Megatron's fuelpump hammered in his own audios. Breathing slow and deep, he brought his fans under control and throttled them down. He'd cool off soon enough.

He grimaced at the evidence of his overload, opening his desk drawers with his clean hand in a search for something to get rid of the mess. He didn't want anything left for the Autobot to see when he arrived.

For some reason, Megatron didn't think the meeting with Hound was going to go anything like -

- like nothing, because Megatron had never planned to meet Sarge. Or the mech who'd played Sarge. An actor was nothing like the character, which he knew full well. He'd had absolutely no fantasies or imagined a single scenario for how it could have gone. Hound was probably a plain, boring, everyday Autobot who'd be scared out of his helm at being called into the office of the ruler of Cybertron. Nothing would happen, nothing at all.

Megatron wasn't looking forward to it at all.

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**_[A/N:_** _And that's a wrap. End._**_]_**


End file.
